


Piece By Piece

by maddaddam



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Bisexual Jean Kirstein, Demisexual Marco Bodt, Drama, Drinking, Emotional Abuse, Explicit Language, Gay Eren Yeager, Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Musician Eren Yeager, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Eren Yeager, POV First Person, POV Jean Kirstein, POV Marco Bott, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Polyamory, Road Trips, Writer Jean Kirstein, background reibert, background springles, lots and lots of drama, on the road au, really it's just a traumatic road trip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddaddam/pseuds/maddaddam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschstein is a writer searching for some inspiration in a place he isn't even sure exists. He's the kind of person your mama warned you to be wary of: grew up rich, nice family, mid-life identity crisis at twenty-five. All he wants is to satisfy the wanderlust that's been gnawing at his bones for weeks, and if that means setting out across the country with no prior planning, then so be it. </p>
<p>Eren Jaeger is your typical sob story of love turned sour; a four year relationship that ended on a low note and flung Eren out into the world with no plans, no money, and no one to fall back on. Now, he'll do whatever it takes to find a different tune to take his mind off the rhythm of his old life. But the past doesn't always stay hidden, and sometimes, <em>sometimes,</em> it takes more than one person to bury it. </p>
<p>And then there's Marco Bodt: the interesting young whirlwind they meet along the way. No one is exactly sure where he's from or where he's going; only that he's running. And fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It was a series of unfortunate coincidences that started it, the car breaking down in just the right place in the dead of night, the lonely souls on the road behind me claiming me as one of their own. It was a series of mishaps, mistakes, and slip ups that led me to the road, and series of increasingly interesting people that kept my feet firmly planted on it. It was a series of events I’ll never forget, and a collection of memories I couldn’t get rid of, even if I wanted to.

This is the story of how I stumbled upon the two greatest people in my life and how I couldn’t shake them no matter how hard my sense of wanderlust pulled me farther and farther West. 

I’ll tell you all this, before I really get into the nitty gritty of it: 

This isn’t a happy story, or even a particularly tragic one. This isn’t a story about falling for prince charming or slaying the dragon or reaching the peak of a mountain only to find that someone got there first. 

This is the story of three men, one of them myself, and their roundabout journeys across these great United States which ultimately led to a crossing of paths that would forever change each of them. This is the story of a writer, a refuge, and a prisoner. Of a hopeless romantic, a survivor, and an enigma. 

This is the story of how we helped put ourselves back together, piece by agonizing piece. 


	2. Jean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You don't even know where I'm going."_  
>  _"I don't care. I'd like to go anywhere.”_  
>  -John Steinbeck

I left home on a Tuesday morning, before the sun had even emerged from behind the smog of the city and before my parents had even bothered to wake for the day. It was a silent affair - my leaving. I hauled myself out of the warmth of my bed, changed my shirt and socks and pants, slipped on a pair of ratty old shoes, and stood at the center of my bedroom. 

The thing about leaving is, it ain’t exactly easy if you just decide to do it. Leaving is the kind of thing that takes planning and thought; two things I’m very, _very_ proficient at.

So why, now, was I standing in my freshly donned clothes in the center of my bedroom and looking out the window as if waiting for a sign from God? The answer may surprise you.

I am a man of plans; of discipline, of meticulous thought and of crunching numbers. I can name all the countries of the world and their capitals, I coordinate my socks with my shirt every Goddamn morning, and I’ll never do something unless I’ve made an extensive list of pros and cons. I am a man of many things, but I am not a man of spontaneity.

At least, I wasn’t back then. Back in the days leading up to this grand miss-adventure that saw me flitting around the house gathering supplies once the chilliness of my bedroom forced me into action. But that day, things were different. That day, my life and actions were dominated by a wanderlust so powerful it had kept me up for weeks; uncomfortable with my stationary existence in the only city I’d ever known. That day was the day my head told the rest of my body _fuck it_ and turned off completely while my hands grabbed atlases and roadmaps and my feet carried me towards the garage. That Tuesday, I had decided the moment I got up, was the day my life began.

I worked silently and efficiently, avoiding creaky floorboards as I snuck around the old townhome looking for provisions. I dug out a six pack of beer from the fridge, a few bags of popcorn from the pantry, and a hefty assortment of fruit for good measure. All of these, you should know, were flung haphazardly into the back seat of my Ford. Alongside these necessities sat a plastic grocery bag wrapped around a toothbrush and some other toiletries and a duffle - unused for many years now - overflowing with hastily packed clothing.

My feet suddenly carried me to a stop in the kitchen, the rest of my body screaming at the traitorous appendages to _run run RUN_. And yet….something was definitely keeping me here. Some force, be it my own or supernatural was keeping me paralyzed between the kitchen sink and the door to the garage. _Having doubts_ , I thought. That’s what they call it when you second guess every decision you’ve ever made. I sighed. Having doubts in the middle of my kitchen at 4:56 in the morning was not where I wanted to be. Where I wanted to be was speeding down the open road with the windows rolled down on a journey to somewhere only I could find and be content with. I wanted to be free from this city, these people, this life. I wanted freedom and adventure and a whole manner of things I had no way of describing until I felt them.

I felt my heartbeat pick up in my chest, the muscle banging around wildly with anticipation and nerves. It made me want to leave more.

Silently, I forced my feet to walk me towards the door, only stopping when I heard the shuffling of blankets in the bedroom down the hall. _They’re not awake_ , I told myself, _Mom’s just a restless sleeper. You won’t get caught_.

Still, the reminder of my parents - almost forgotten in my hurry - made me pause. They were good people; always caring for me and giving me whatever I asked for from toys to computers to piano lessons. They’d never truly understand why their only son had chosen to flee in the middle of the night. They’d never get over it.

I sighed. The morning was stretching on and I wanted to be getting out before the rush hour traffic made it impossible to get out of Philadelphia. I collected my thoughts as fast as I could, rushing to grab a piece of paper and a spare pen from the stack my mother always kept by the fridge so she could write down recipes. My writing was frantic, and no doubt illegible, but my need to explain was far outweighed by my need to sprint out the door and into the great unknown.

 _Much love, Jean_ , I wrote at the bottom before taping the paper up on the door to the garage so they would see it when they left for work. Once I was satisfied that it wouldn’t fall off, I ripped the door open and ran for the car. I turned the key in the ignition, and before I knew what was happening, I was free.

I wish I could tell you all about the sense of liberation that overcame me as I drove the familiar roads I’d driven all my life with no obligation to return back down them later. I wish I could tell you in such poetic words how I rolled down the window to stick my head out like a dog, or how my life was completely changed once I turned onto the turnpike headed West. I wish I could tell you all these things and more, but sadly, I don’t remember any of it.

In fact, I only really came-to long after the Philadelphia skyline had faded from my rearview mirror. I think I might have been in Harrisburg. Or maybe those narrow streets belonged to Lancaster? Either way, I came-to and had to pull off the mainroad to keep myself from hyperventilating and crashing into the truck in front of me.

It’s a mystery to me of how exactly it happened, but somehow I ended up on a winding side road in the hills, facedown on the pavement. I don’t remember getting out of my car, or why I decided that face planting on the asphalt would be a good idea, but it happened. It happened, and I’m slightly ashamed of it if we’re being perfectly honest here. Could you imagine? Finding a twenty-five year old, relatively healthy man lying face down on the side of the road at six o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday? Pathetic.

Somehow I managed to compose myself, emptying the contents of my stomach over the barrier dividing the road from the fields beyond, and taking a few calming breaths.

Remember, please, that I am a man of structure. The kind of person who needs a schedule or a pattern to feel fulfilled. So you can probably imagine the kind of stress I was under, having just up and left my home of twenty-five years without a care and no real plan for where I was going. Well, scratch that. I knew where I was going, but it wasn’t exactly a place. It was more of an idea.

Once my bones felt less like gelatin, I crawled my way back to the open door of my car and pulled myself up into the driver’s seat. A decent pile of maps and books sat to my right and I grabbed the first one I saw: a map of the greater New England area. A few minutes of cursing and scrambling to trace the lines of interstates cutting the counties in half eventually led me to locate my current location; only five miles south of Harrisburg on I-76.

I turned the map over in my hands, looking for something that would somehow satisfy this need to travel in the paper of the atlas. Unsurprisingly, it yielded nothing. I folded the map and tossed it onto the seat beside me. Part of me wanted to reach out and grab it again, just to be sure that I was headed in the right direction, but the louder voice in my head abolished the thought before it could fully formulate.

 _You don’t need a Goddamn map, Kirschtein. You’ve got your life right here in your car; who cares if you get lost?_ It screamed, forcing me to turn on the engine and floor my poor little sedan down the winding road. _This is what it’s all about! This is what you need!_

I pulled back onto the interstate, upset that the voices in my head could sound so rational when I was putting everything on the line. Shit, I didn’t even know which state I was going to end up in at that point; only that it had to be West of here.

The reason it had to be West of here is this: I don’t fucking know. I don’t know why my heart was so drawn in that direction or what I hoped to achieve once I got there. I only knew that the West had represented everything I had ever wanted and more since I was a child. Perhaps you could attribute it to my mother’s love of Jack Kerouac, or my father’s obsession with mountaineering in the Rockies. Maybe this wanderlust is a genetic side-affect of being their son.

Or maybe, and probably more likely, I was drawn to it because it was my last hope for inspiration. The West was the only place I could flee to without any relatives hounding me and telling me that writing was a worthless ambition. Which, by the way, was a fact I already knew. The starving artist stereotype exists for a reason, you know.

So, yeah. Flooring my car fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit towards a thing I wasn’t even sure would bring me the comfort I wanted was probably a really stupid idea. A really, really, grade-A stupid idea. But you know what? It was worth it.

.

..

…

I ended up crashing in a run down little motel just outside of Louisville later that afternoon. (A ten hour drive I wouldn’t recommend to anyone, if you must know. I think it’d only be particularly interesting if you enjoyed having to pass horse-drawn buggies on the side roads and staring at signs telling you to repent for your sins. I’m guessing that’s only appealing to a very particular kind of person.) The lady behind the counter side-eyed me warily when I requested a room for one; most likely suspicious of a scraggly twenty-something man ordering a bed for just one night. I didn’t blame her exactly, but the calculating gaze she fixed me with combined with the overwhelming smell of old-lady perfume and the close up view I had of her wrinkles forced me to lean away as she typed commands into the outdated computer.

“Here ya are, darlin’,” she’d said, popping a large, pink bubblegum bubble between her teeth and handing me the skeleton key to my room. “Second to last door on the left.”

“Thank you,” I had mumbled back, shoving the key into my pocket and nodding at her as I retreated out the front door. It opened after a moment of throwing my weight against it, exposing me to the humid Kentucky air and letting in a draft that ruffled the papers on the front desk. The woman behind the counter huffed at the disruption and glowered at me as I made my way out the door and to the room across the parking lot.

The room was about what you’d expect from a cheap motel in the south: rundown carpet, floral comforter and curtains, a cross on the wall, and a Bible on the bedside table. The only thing that struck me as particularly unusual about it at the time was that the water temperature only ranged from ‘hot tub’ to ‘hellfire’. I decided that a shower wasn’t worth third degree burns; though I longed for some way to rinse the grime of the drive off my skin. Instead, I settled on changing all my clothes and spreading out on top of the covers with my assortment of maps and road guides.

The most logical route to the very vague location of _West_ seemed to be continuing across Illinois and Missouri until I reached Kansas City. From there I could get to Denver, which could get me almost anywhere. At least, that’s what I figured. I could even have seen the Grand Canyon if I was willing to drive a little farther south. A frantic flutter started in my stomach then, making me drop the atlas I’d been holding onto the bed. _Am I really doing this?_ I thought to myself, _am I really just gonna….DO it?_

There was a moment there when all thought stopped; logical or otherwise. For once, there was no logical Jean to counteract the adventurer Jean, leaving me to flounder in the silence of the stuffy hotel room.

And then it hit me.

“Holy fucking SHIT,” I yelled, pushing myself up from the bed and rushing to pull the drapes open. I stared out into the dark beyond my window, mesmerized by the clarity of the sky at night. “I’m doing it! I’m fucking doing it!” I yelled again, this time flinging open the door to my dingy room and rushing out into the muggy evening air. “I DID IT!”

Spurred on by the sudden wind of accomplishment and improvisation, I went back into the room, pulled on my shoes, and hopped back into the driver’s seat of my car. I remember thinking I’d spent too much time in this chair already, but I didn’t really give a shit. How could I? I had a whole bloody country, maybe even a whole _continent_ at my disposal. No more family obligations, no more disapproval or mediocrity, only the open road and my need to explore.

I found myself several hours later in a bar in Louisville. Don’t ask me how I got there or what I was drinking, I can’t tell you. All I know for sure is that I was there, whatever I was drinking was decent enough to justify me staying, and they played bad music.

At some point during the night I was approached by a young couple, newly wed from the looks of it. The man, obviously drunk, offered to buy me a round of drinks, but I said no because, despite my newfound spontaneity, I still couldn’t take drinks from strangers.

“Ahh c’mon man,” the man slurred into my ear while his wife giggled behind him, “a round of drinks for the weary traveler, heh?”

I should mention that this was, indeed, the twenty-first century when he said this to me. This bald, shrimp of a man whom I’d never so much as seen before, referred to me as a ‘weary traveler’. I wondered if it was the stench of gasoline on my clothes or the fact I was getting wasted by myself on a Tuesday night that tipped him off.

“No thanks. I’ve probably had too much already….probably gonna have to take a taxi back to the motel,” I told him. His wife came to stand beside me, plopping down on the sticky bar stool to my right.

“I’ll drive ya, hon,” she said, spinning the chair around to face me before waving her arms frantically over my head to get the attention of the bartender. She ordered a cheeseburger. At midnight. On a Tuesday. “I don’t drink, y’know? I’d be happy to drop you off if it meant I wouldn’t have to be alone with Connie while he’s drunk.”

“Hey!” The man shouted indignantly.

“He get’s sappy,” his wife continued without a beat. The cheeseburger she’d ordered was planted in front of her and she began digging into it ravenously.

I considered their offer: on one hand, I desperately needed to get back to the motel before I fell asleep at the bar….and I definitely wasn’t in any position to be driving myself. I also wanted be on the road early; an unquenchable thirst for the open road making staying in Louisville for more than one night nearly impossible.

On the other hand, the pair of them could have been on a Bonnie and Clyde style rampage throughout the south, hoping to make me an accomplice or even a victim to their next crime.

Needless to say, the urge to get back on the open road outweighed my fear of being violently murdered by a pair of gunslingers.

“A’ight,” I told them, words slightly slurred as they tumbled out of alcohol numbed lips. The man - Connie, she’d said his name was - whooped in delight, calling shotgun as he barreled out the door of the bar. His wife and I exchanged a knowing glance, sitting up together and making our way towards the drunkard. Before leaving, she called back to the bartender and asked him to bag her cheeseburger, handing me the styrofoam box of grease and heart failure so she could reach into her pockets for the car keys and unlock the vehicle. Once open, her husband opened the passenger side door and collapsed into the seat. I pulled open the door behind him and made to get into the back row before a voice stopped me.

“I’m Sasha, by the way,” the woman told me as she settled in behind the steering wheel. I held my arm over the divider to shake her hand.

“Jean,” I said to her.

“You French or somethin’?”

“No,” I answered truthfully, though the alcohol buzzing through my system compelled me to lie and tell her I was secretly the illegitimate heir to a French noble, “my mom’s family is, but I think they just liked the name.” She nodded.

“You just passin’ through here, sugar?” Sasha looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror and I smiled at her.

“O’course he’s jus passin’ through here, Sash,” Connie suddenly piped up from the front, “n’body lives here on purpose.”

“Connie, you moved here just three years ago because you, quote, ‘loved the atmosphere.’”

“Nooo I din’t….”

“You’re drunk, babe.”

“Yeeaaaah.”

I watched their exchange from my position in the back seat, almost envying the connection they shared and their ability to play off each other so easily. It wasn’t that they were exactly the same, like my parent’s were, it was that they were two parts of a whole picture. Like Connie was the paper and Sasha was the pen; like they needed each other to make a story worth writing but they were still useful by themselves.

“My motel’s up here on the right,” I told her, wincing as she swung the car into the parking lot full throttle.

“Alrighty, here ya are,” Sasha said once the wheels had stopped spinning and the asphalt had stopped burning. I opened the door and let myself out onto the street, my legs threatening to collapse the second the hit solid ground. _Pathetic_ , I told myself as I used the door handle to pull myself upright. _Utterly pathetic_.

“Thank you for the ride,” I managed once my legs started working on their own accord. I had to lean down considerably for Sasha to hear me through the halfway open window. “Um….how far is it back to that bar? I kind of need my car.” _That is_ , I told myself, _if I was even fit to drive in the morning_.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, sugar,” Sasha smiled, leaning out the open window to pat my arm, “I’ll drive you over in the mornin’. You just tell me a time and I’ll be right here.”

“A-are you sure? You really don’t have to….”

Sasha slapped me playfully in the chest, her smile widening with every word I spoke. “Haven’t you ever heard of southern hospitality?”

I had. I had heard of southern hospitality thousands of times; in school, on TV, even from my parents. I suppose, until that moment, I had never really considered it to be a legitimate thing. Much like I had never considered the West to be a legitimate destination for me to travel in. It made me like the idea even more.

“Yeah, yeah I have,” I told her, grinning stupidly as I paced away from the car, calling out a slurred goodbye over my shoulder. About halfway to my door, I heard Sasha shout out from the car again.

“One more thing, darlin’,” she said and pulled the car up next to where I stood with my keys in my hands and my smile still stuck to my face.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Where you headed? It certainly ain’t Louisville.” Sasha said. Her husband shouted a very garbled ‘DAMN STRAIGHT IT’S NOT’ from where he was slumped over in the passenger’s seat. I smiled.

“I don’t know,” I told her, because it was true. Sure, I knew the general direction I was headed, but I didn’t know when I’d stop and decide that _here, here is my ultimate destination_. I would never have an ultimate destination; only a feeling. A feeling that everything was alright in the world and that I could be happy. It was a feeling that I could only describe as _the feeling of going West_.

Sasha smiled sadly at me then, an action that forced me back from my own contemplation. Gently, she took my hand in hers, rubbing her thumb along my knuckles and glancing up into my eyes before speaking again.

“Do any of us?” She chuckled.

“No,” I said, “No, I guess not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters will be alternating between Jean, Eren, and Marco's point of view. Also, they'll be longer in the future, they're just a tad short right now because none of them have met yet.


	3. Eren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.”_  
>  -Buddha

I’d like to say that I left my apartment in Rapid City with relative grace and acceptance of the situation, but the fact of the matter is I stormed out of my apartment in a cloud of cheap cologne with snot and tears trickling down my face. I’d like to say that I left my boyfriend of four years and moved on to greener pastures, but of course, that too would be a lie.  


It was a Wednesday. I think. My recollection of the entire affair is shoddy at the very least, but I’m pretty sure it was Wednesday because the farmers market was set up on the street outside when I barreled through the front door of our complex. I think I may have even knocked over a cart of cabbages in my blind stampede through the stands.  


The reason I may have possibly demolished a trolley full of produce is a tad complicated and definitely not something I’d like to share. So here’s the SparkNotes version:  


I woke up that Wednesday morning completely unaware that my life had changed. I feel like that’s pretty normal, you know? Sometimes your life flips upside down overnight and you don’t even realize it ‘till you’re walking on the ceiling when you should be walking on the floor. Wednesday morning wasn’t exactly like that, but it was pretty damn close.  


Sunlight trickled in through the cheap blinds of our bedroom window, just as it always had. I rolled over to avoid looking at it dead on, just as I’ve always done. I felt an empty bed beneath me, just as it never was.  


I sat upright, startled by the vacant space in the queen sized bed where my boyfriend always slept. It’s not like he ever got up early, so where was he? I ran my fingers over the sheets on his side of the bed, aching for a sign that he had been there but met only with the feeling of cold cotton on callused fingers. That definitely wasn’t normal. Neither was the state of our shared closet when I went to open it in search of clothing. Summer in Rapid City was always hot….it wasn’t exactly unusual for me to sleep in the nude. What _was_ unusual was the lack of clothing on my side of the closet. I contemplated reaching for a pair of Levi’s boxers, but it would be pointless and also probably painful; he was at least two pant sizes smaller than I was.  


Hesitantly, I hobbled out of the comfort of the bedroom in search of the boyfriend I was fairly convinced had been kidnapped. I passed the bathroom and the office, peering into each to check for Levi’s slight frame - half expecting to find him hunched over some paperwork or brushing his teeth as he read the morning paper. Once I was sure he wasn’t in either, I poked my head out into the living room. Sunlight trickled through the open blinds of our apartment window, just as it always did. The radio was turned off, just as it always was. Levi was sitting on the couch drinking a cup of tea, just as he never did that early in the morning.  


“Levi? Babe?” I had called out into the silence of our living room.  


“Yes?” He responded, taking a measured sip from the teacup he held so unusually in his hands.  


“Why are you up so early?” I asked, still not wanting to face him. Especially when he was fully clothed while I was naked. Especially not when anyone walking across the street could see straight into the window of our second story flat.  


“Come here,” Levi had said, putting his tea on the coffee table beside him but never once taking his eyes off the newspaper in front of him.  


“Babe? Where are my clothes?” I tried.  


“Now, Eren.”  


“But Levi I-”  


“Now.”  


I slowly crept out to meet him, ducking down so the couch would cover the lower half of my body from anyone outside. It’s not like we lived in the middle of town or anything, but I could definitely hear the sounds of the city waking up around us and the last thing I wanted was for some poor delivery man to look up and get a nice view of me naked from below.  


Levi didn’t look at me when I stepped into the room, which maybe should have been my first indicator that something was wrong. He’d always had this unsettling habit of following my every movement with his piercing grey eyes, but that day, he didn’t even tear his gaze away from the newspaper folded pristinely on his lap. Only once I was standing right beside him, one hand futilely trying to cover myself, did he speak again.  


“Your bags are by the door,” he said, prompting me to notice the mountainous stack of backpacks near the front of our apartment. I froze.  


“W-what is this?” I had asked him, rushing over to the closest bag and rummaging through it with tears stinging my eyes. I found a hoodie near the top, worn from years of wear and tear in college, and pulled it on to hide my skin from Levi’s scrutiny. The fabric still smelled faintly of the cheap cologne I used to practically bathe myself in as a Freshman.  


“A proper send off,” Levi responded. I stood slowly to face him.  


Again, I’d like to say that I was the image of composure throughout this entire exchange. I’d like to say that I took Levi’s unprecedented rejection with my head held high and my spine straight. But I’ve never been a good liar, and I’ve never been a calm person.  


So I exploded. Not in anger, like I might have as a teenager fresh out of highschool, but in grief. In absolute agony and sadness because my life had turned upside down and I didn’t even know it was happening. Tears streamed down my face, snot caught attractively in the stubble on my chin, and my lungs. God, my lungs. I’m pretty sure they stopped working altogether; overwhelmed with confusion and sadness and fear and God knows what else.  


“Why?” I think I had managed to choke out despite the leaden weight in my chest.  


“You’re leaving.” Levi stood from the couch, placed the newspaper on the table, and walked to the bathroom down the hall. I wanted to scream “since when?!” but forcing out a one syllable word had already been a tall order for my constricting vocal chords. The lock on the bathroom door clicking shut was accompanied by the sound of the pipes doing their best to push warm water out of the shower head. I thought it harmonized well with the sound of my heaving sobs.  


That was how life was with Levi; how life with Levi had always been. You did your best, you thought everything was going well, and then it changed on a dime. He decided he no longer liked the apartment you were living in, so you moved out practically overnight. He decided that his job wasn’t the right fit and he quit without telling you. His decisions were absolute, uncompromisable. Everything happened because he decided it should - and if you weren’t on board, you were left behind by the steamroller that was Levi.  


I had been left behind by that train before, but it was never permanent. I always had to chase it down again, even if I was too weak to continue running after it. Sometimes I’d jump off the train willingly and try to jog beside him as he chugged along through life, but Levi would always win out in the end. He’d tell me he loved me or that I wouldn’t last without him and I’d jump right back on the train, even if it carried me away from where I wanted to go.  


That Wednesday morning I was neither behind the train, nor beside it; I was being crushed under its massive wheels until my lungs gave out. It felt like I’d be there until it physically killed me - like I’d just keep getting trampled by Levi’s massive personality until he got bored of waiting for me to die and left for something undoubtedly better. Or maybe someone better. Someone better than the half-dressed bastard crumpled on the floor with hair all over his face and tears on his cheeks. Maybe he was looking for someone with a personality big enough to match his own….someone who would put up a fight instead of just reaching into a duffle bag for a pair of pyjama pants and bolting out the door.  


I ran from the apartment Levi and I had lived in together for four years with two duffel bags under my arms and my guitar slung across my back. Distantly I thought, _at least he’d had the decency to include it in the pile of my belongings when he kicked me out_ , but it was lost in the myriad of adrenaline coursing through my veins. And thank God for that adrenaline, too, because I don’t know how far I would have gotten without it. Probably not very, but nonetheless it propelled me down the stairs, through the lobby, into that cart of cabbages, and somehow into an alley three blocks from our building.  


The alley was quiet and shaded, I remember that much. I also remember stooping down at some point to put on a pair of shoes because the run over had been barefoot and though my feet were callused from years of horsing around outside, they weren’t immune to the shards of glass littering the street.  


I sat in that alley for two hours, waiting to feel something - though it was unclear to me what exactly that something was supposed to be. Grief? Anger? Annoyance? Fear? All I felt was numb and not at all like I was actually in my body. I felt like I had when I was a kid and one of the older boys on the reservation had offered me a joint and I had taken it without knowing what it was. I was weightless. Listless. Unimportant. Tired. Everything I probably shouldn’t have been given the circumstances.  


At some point I left the relative safety of the alley to locate a payphone, letting my body guide me while my brain remained on lockdown.  


“Mikasa?” I said once the phone had connected to her landline in San Francisco.  


“Eren? You sound awful,” she said. I smiled at her bluntness.  


“C-could I come live with you and Armin for a while?” I asked her, already knowing the answer. This was Mikasa, after all. Not Levi.  


She was silent for a moment on the other side of the line. Then, “Of course, Eren.”  


We hung up shortly after that, my half-sister never once asking why I needed to crash with her. Mikasa wasn’t exactly one for conversation, but then again, neither was Levi. It was one of the very few things they had in common, aside from their last names and my love for each of them. I sighed at the thought that loving Levi wasn’t something I could do anymore, I’d have to move on.  


Mikasa had agreed to let me stay with her, and that was a good thing. I would be living with my two best friends again, and that was a fantastic thing. Best of all, I had no mode of transportation, and that was a terrible thing.  


I had never invested in a car, largely because I had never invested time into getting a job, instead opting to play a few gigs at local bars until my music career took off. Levi often joked that I was the trophy wife of our relationship. Still, I had no car. Or bike. Or plane. Or, I don’t know, canoe? Nothing. It looked like I would be hitchhiking across the country, Rapid City to San Francisco, since a brief inspection of my belongings proved that I only had seventy-five dollars in my wallet. There was money in the bank account, of course, but it didn’t belong to me anymore. Knowing Levi, he’d already cancelled my credit cards and changed all the account information.  


So I set out. Rapid City wasn’t exactly the busiest city in the country (heck, it wasn’t even the busiest city in South Dakota), but it only took me thirty minutes of holding my hand out at a major intersection before I got picked up by an elderly couple heading towards Cheyenne. I knew Mikasa would have a heart attack when she learned how I was getting around, but I was out of options. And besides, how much trouble could I get into with a pair of eighty year olds on their way to meet their grandson in Wyoming? I would be fine. What Mikasa didn’t know wouldn’t kill her.  


The couple had let me put my belongings in the trunk of their minivan when they picked me up, leaving me empty-handed in the backseat of their car while they showered me with praises and questions.  


“Where you headed, boy?” The man had asked me first. His skin was peppered with liver spots from years in the sun and his eyes crinkled in the corners when he spoke.  


“San Francisco,” I told him, watching the outskirts of Rapid City fly past me. The only home I had ever really known, and we were almost past it.  


“You from around here, son?” His wife asked, looking at me over her shoulder while her hands pulled out the yarn necessary for knitting a scarf. I laughed at the irony of the question.  


“Yes, ma’am. I’m from Pine Ridge.”  


“Oh, honey! A native!” The woman squealed, slapping her husband excitedly on the arm. I winced at the reaction. Yes, I’d grown up on a reservation. My mom was Lakota. It wasn’t all that unusual around here. Definitely not unusual enough to warrant slapping your spouse on the arm while he was operating a motor vehicle going 60 down the freeway.  


“Dot!” He yelled as the car swerved into the next lane, an action that forced the woman to calm herself so her husband could scold her. I let the sound of their bickering lull me into silence, losing myself in the grassy plains rolling by our windows. _At least it’s a beautiful day_ , I had told myself to ease the growing feeling of malcontent eating at the lining of my stomach. _The sky is clear_ , I continued to point out all the good things about the scenery. Anything to keep my mind off the city retreating into the distance.  


“You have a girlfriend, dear?” The woman asked after a while. I wanted to punch her for asking.  


“No, ma’am.” I said instead, sitting on my hands so I wouldn’t reach across the divider and wrap my fingers around her fragile chicken neck.  


“Shame,” she sighed. _It’s a shame I can’t get away with murder right now_ , I thought. “Such an attractive young man.”  


“Thank you, ma’am,” I ground out.  


“You know, I have a niece about your age….” she continued on, only making me want to hurt her more. That was not the day for that conversation, not in the slightest.  


“Actually, ma’am,” I started, the words dripping with a dangerous mix of sarcasm and venom, “I just broke up with my boyfriend. I’m not exactly looking for another relationship at the moment.”  


The car went silent. A voice at the back of my head told me that I had just made a mistake, that I couldn’t just go around advertising my sexuality to strangers and expect them to be okay with it. That even though it was total bullshit, I couldn’t expect them to be accepting of this part of me. _They could kill you, or dump you on the side of the road_ , the voice of reason said. It sounded like Mikasa’s voice. It made me want to ignore it more.  


“My boyfriend of four years,” I added in smugly, even though Mikasa’s voice was screaming at me to stop while I had the chance.  


“Oh, dear,” one of them whispered, though I couldn’t make out which wrinkly, old mouth the words had come out of.  


“Mmhmm.” Stop stop stop, screamed the voice, you’re being arrogant and you’re going to get yourself hurt.  


What a silly thought that was. I’ve always been arrogant and stubborn. Hadn’t gotten me hurt yet.  


“Oh, my,” the wife said. I waited for the explosion that was sure to follow; the woman slapping her husband’s arm again until he was forced to pull the minivan over so they could ditch me on the side of the interstate, the pair of them driving away screaming. At some point, the woman would make her husband pull off the road so she could clean the leather upholstery in the back seat. “ _Can’t have any of our grandbabies catching_ that,” she’d say as she scrubbed the space I had occupied with bleach.  


The explosion didn’t happen, which maybe was for the best. No, not maybe. It was definitely for the best. It would have only added wood to the fire that had started in my veins to keep the chill of leaving Levi manageable. Instead, the couple stayed eerily quiet as we wound our way through the hills and into the pines my mother used to tell me all about. Only when we reached Cheyenne did they speak again, this time informing me they were stopping for gas and that they’d let me off at the station. I eagerly accepted.  


Said gas station was deserted when we pulled up to the self-service pump in front, but it didn’t stop the couple from rushing around like there was a line of a hundred cars waiting for them to finish. They got my bags from the trunk and paid for the gas in record time, their tires screeching in protest as they raced away from the station. I didn’t even have time to give them a proper thank you, but that’s probably what they wanted.  


Much like the rest of the station, the convenience store attached to it was empty - save for the bored young teen twisting her nose piercing between her forefinger and her thumb while she watched over the abandoned shop. I completely ignored her, walking instead to the aisles of cheap food and tobacco, my stomach growling in protest at the sight of it all. Impulse told me I needed a six pack of beer and a family sized bag of potato chips; reason said otherwise. Reason said: _Eren, you need water and proper food. You can’t survive off Lay's Potato Chips and Bud Lite_. I sullenly agreed, pulling a few bottles of water, a couple bags of trail mix, and two pre-made sandwiches from the fridge. Impulse won out a bit too, in the end, forcing my hand to grab a jumbo bag of Skittles off the shelf when I went to pay for it all. I figured I could treat myself a little bit after the day I’d had.  


The teenager wrung me up and lazily accepted the cash I slid across the counter, sighing and rolling her eyes as she went. I left the instant she finished, running out of the convenience store and into the empty lot, if for nothing else than to feel the sun on my skin. Also, to use the restroom located on the side of the building. That was also a pretty big priority.  


_What do I do now?_ I remember thinking as I gathered my stuff and sat down on the pavement in front of the gas pump, letting my skin absorb the heat radiating off the asphalt. My options at the time seemed pretty limited: either wait for another ride, or spend the night on the streets of Cheyenne. I thought about the ride I had suffered through earlier. I thought about how long it’d been since I spent the night homeless. Homeless sounded infinitely better.  


Before I could get up and scout for my temporary real estate, I saw something that made me freeze. Not in the bad way, where you’re paralyzed with fear or dread, but in the good way, where you see something you need and you freeze up from the rush of excitement and adrenaline running through you. I froze because walking up to me, slowly and without a care in the world, was a little brown cat.  


I had always liked cats - even begged Levi to get one so the apartment wouldn’t be as lonely during the day. The answer had always been no. Not because he was allergic, but because I wasn’t responsible enough to take care of a living creature when I was already struggling to take care of myself. At least, that’s what he told me; but this cat didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t seem to care that I looked like shit, or that I was sitting on my ass in the middle of a gas station parking lot, or that I was irresponsible as hell. She just wanted a lap to sit on - something I was more than glad to give her.  


I held out my hand as the cat approached, letting her nuzzle along my arm and gently scratching at the soft fur behind her ears. She purred immediately at the attention, the low rumbling sound spreading out from her chest until I could feel it rattling my own bones. Carefully, I picked her up, smiling when she didn’t protest, and dropped her in my lap.  


“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” I asked her. She responded by kneading my thigh with her delicate paws. “You shouldn’t be a-alone.” My voice broke on the last word, as did the rest of me, sobs pouring out of my body as the realization of what I had just done hit me head on. I wanted to stop, God did I want to stop. I wanted to regain my composure so I could move on from that wretched gas station and find a place to sleep. I wanted the sadness to stop eating away at the fibres surrounding my heart and I wanted to run back to Rapid City and beg for Levi’s forgiveness, even if I wasn’t sure what I needed to be forgiven for.  


The cat’s purrs turned louder, almost threatening, the longer I cried, forcing me to turn my attention back to her. I giggled when she rubbed her soft little head against the underside of my chin, but the crying still wouldn’t stop. Even after a few hours, and after I had depleted my body’s water supply, the crying wouldn’t stop. I was starting to wonder if crying had just become my default setting.  


“What are we going to do, hm?” I asked the creature in my arms between heaving sobs. She purred in response. Her cheerfulness warmed my heart, but I still couldn’t stop. Even when I looked up at the sky I hadn’t noticed getting darker, now littered with the first few stars of the evening, I couldn’t stop. “What are we going to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh just to be clear I don't really care if you ship Levi/Eren, it's just not my cup of tea and it's really not the main focus of this story. So...yeah.  
> I'm really excited for Marco's chapter ahhh.  
> Also if you aren't reading [my other fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7459629/chapters/16951836) which is kind of on an alternating schedule with this one, you should maybe do that.
> 
> EDIT: Someone should give this poor cat a name. She needs a name. Suggestions in the comments?


	4. Marco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Running away will never make you free.”_  
>  -Kenny Loggins

_My name is Marco Bodt. My name is Marco Bodt. M-A-R-C-O B-O-D-T. My name is Marco Bodt. My name is Marco Bodt._ It had become like a personal mantra to me, the spelling and sounding out of my own name in my head; something I could cling to no matter how shitty life was or how confusing things were. I used to catch myself rehearsing it over and over and over again until it didn’t sound real anymore or until I convinced myself that there was no such person as _Marco Bodt_. That he was just a figure of my imagination or another insignificant piece of the monologue running through my head.

That Thursday, my mantra played like a broken record in my skull. I chanted it to myself as I got up. I repeated the words silently while I dressed myself in clothes that didn’t belong to me. I listened to it repeat itself a thousand times when I walked out of the apartment. I mouthed along as I stepped onto a train for the first time in my entire life. In fact, it had become so commonplace in my mind that I hardly noticed getting onto the train, though you’d think I would since I technically snuck on illegally. Those kinds of things generally stick out, right? Ha. Not to me. I do remember hiding among the passengers when it came time to board, letting myself get lost in the tide of travelers flowing in and out of Grand Central. I also remember smiling charmingly to an elderly woman traveling by herself and pretending to escort her on board, as if it were my job to do so. No one stopped me. No one saw the twenty-something man in a suit clinging to the shoulder of a smiling old lady and thought, _hey, he doesn’t have a ticket_ , they just nodded and smiled and let me on in.

On one hand, the fact that I had hijacked the train so easily was a refreshing way to start my journey. On the other, I had been expecting a lot more resistance….perhaps even a scuffle. I thought getting on the train would be as hard as anything else in my life, but the lack of opposition terrified me to the core. It sent my head spiraling the second I sat down in one of the seats near the back of the cabin, forcing me to rapidly drum my fingers on my thigh to ease the growing headache. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? I couldn’t just….escape? Just like that? Surely, they’d come looking for me. Surely, they’d send Annie or Bert or Reiner to come find me. Surely, they wouldn’t let their most prized possession slip away without a fight.

The thought was a sobering one, and I felt myself calming down at the implication that I would soon be hunted by the people I had just escaped from. Crazy, right? But I needed that crazy. I needed someone to slap me across the face and tell me to _get real_. What I absolutely _didn’t_ need was a false sense of hope.

_My name is Marco Bodt. My name is Marco Bodt. M-A-R-C-O_ ….I kept repeating it to myself as the locomtoive lurched to life under my feet. _B-O-D-T…. _the train picked up speed, hurtling faster and faster out of the terminal until it suddenly flung itself into darkness.__

Wanna know what’s more embarrassing than an adult being afraid of the dark? An adult who’s spent his entire life underground being afraid of the dark. An adult who shouted in alarm the second the train disappeared into a pitch black tunnel and gripped the armrests of his seat under his fingers so hard he thought he heard the plastic squeak in protest. Even the five year old across the aisle from me remained calm as the train trudged through the tunnel. I envied him. God, did I envy him. This toddler, only a fraction of my own age, was already better at controlling himself than I was. _My name is Marco Bodt, and I am pathetic._

Ages later - or perhaps it was only a few seconds of clamoring across the hidden tracks - we resurfaced. The nose of the train poked out into the sunlight that managed to filter through the mid-summer haze and the cabin was filled with that uncomfortably dim light. I sighed in relief, my fingers unfurling from their locked position around my armrest, and let myself slouch back into the seat. Years and years of lecturing told me not to let my posture get so bad, but I figured that I had put those years behind me the second I stepped on the train. I sighed in relief at the comfort it brought - how long had it been since I’d sat in a chair like this? A year? Five years? A decade? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was slouch into the uncomfortable polyester fabric of the seat at let myself drift off to the rumbling sound of train wheels over metal tracks.

And drift off I did. The rocking of the train and the constant clatter of metal-on- metal lulled me into a sense of security so deep, I didn't even realize I had fallen asleep.

.

..

...

I woke sometime later, somehow still in my seat and not, I don’t know, face first on the floor or something. It might have been an hour later, or maybe even five, but it was still light out so I doubted it. The scenery _had_ changed dramatically, though. Gone were the endless skyscrapers and chimney tops; replaced now with rolling green hills and oak trees. Farm houses dotted the countryside, but not once did I see another human being scurrying alongside the track like I had in New York. I sighed at the peacefulness of it all. _Is this what freedom feels like?_ I remember wondering to myself as we wound our way around a field of wheat. _I love it!_

The next few hours on the train were kind of a blur, to be perfectly honest. I hadn’t brought anything along with me since my primary goal had been escape from the second I woke up that morning. I really should have brought a book, or a newspaper or something, but I almost forgot to put shoes on before leaving the house so I don’t know how I could have possibly been organized enough to grab something to entertain myself with. _Woe is me_ , I had thought to myself, doing everything I could think of to pass the time. I whistled to myself. I counted the freckles on the back of my hands (thirteen on my right, nine on my left, in case you’re wondering). I watched the countryside speed past my window until I got bored of haystacks and lazy meadows. I made silly faces at the toddler across the aisle until I got him to laugh. I ran my hands through my hair until I was positive that it wasn’t doing that thing it does with the cowlicks anymore. It still didn’t feel like enough, and after hours of trying my best to keep myself at least moderately entertained, I gave up.

I decided to explore the train I had hijacked, figuring that then was as good a time as any. It was pretty typical, or at least I guessed it was. I’d never been on a train before and I haven’t been on one (properly) since then, but I figured that the layout would be pretty much universal. Cargo and dining in the back few cabins, passenger seating in the middle, engine and conductor in the front. It seemed so stereotypical I had to wonder if it had popped out of the pages of a storybook as I walked through the rows of seats on my way to the back of the train. At some point I found myself opening the door to the dining room, carefully stepping across the threshold before I felt a threatening hand press against my chest.

“Afternoon, sir,” a lanky man with wire framed glasses and a conductor’s uniform said, his palm still pushing menacingly against my sternum. I gulped and panicked. _Oh God, I’m busted_ , I thought when he still didn’t move his bony little hand.

“Afternoon,” I said back, trying to sound as cordial as possible under the circumstances. He couldn’t possibly know I was a stowaway, could he?

“Ticket?” The man asked then, using his other hand to push his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. Internally, I screamed. But on the outside I probably look as sunny and polite as ever. That was a special talent of mine.

“Oh, goodness. Must’ve left it back at my seat, should I go and fetch it?” I smiled at him.

“No eating without proof of purchase,” he responded. I smiled a little wider; which if you know anything about me, you know means I’m irritated, but nodded anyway and pretended to head back towards my seat. I ducked out of the hallway after I had assured myself that the uniformed man could no longer see me, ultimately landing myself in a broom closet one cabin down. It was a tight fit in that broom closet, though I’m sure I looked rather amusing. Hunched over to fit between shelves and boxes of disinfectant wipes, head cocked to the side to avoid stabbing myself in the eye with a mop handle. The position was uncomfortable and reeked of rubbing alcohol, but it’s not like I had another option. Where else could I conjure up a plan to steal food if not in a sketchy broom closet?

I have no idea how long I was in there, only that it wasn’t long enough for the scent of hand sanitizer to completely rot my brain cells because I made it out with a fully formed plan and most of my bodily functions. My shoulders took a little while to return to normal, though.

Phase one of the plan: have a quick chat with the puny guard outside the dining room.

“Hello, again,” I said once I’d stepped back across the threshold of the cabin, “sorry to bother you, but could you point me in the direction of the nearest restroom?” I kept my voice casual and my stance nonthreatening while my brain worked in overtime, processing the layout of the cabin behind the man as I waited for a response. _There’s a door on the other side. And windows. And behind this cabin is the kitchen. I can see people in uniforms. There aren’t many passengers here. Good. Should be a piece of cake._

“There’s a sign right above your head, sir,” the guard said through gritted teeth. I looked up and feigned surprise, acting as though I’d never noticed the neon sign hanging above me. I gasped in fake astonishment.

“Oh! Silly me, it’s been a long day,” I told the man, shaking my head and chuckling like it was the most scatterbrained thing I had ever done. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

Phase one of my plan was complete; leaving me to begin setting the stage for the second act. I mosied along the corridor, swaying my hips and whistling like I had all the time in the world before ducking into the bathroom I had pretended not to notice on my way over. I was already quite familiar with it - having scouted it out before returning to speak with the guard - but I pretended to marvel at it when I opened the door and stepped inside, sending a bright smile over my shoulder to the guard. Once inside, I locked the door and set about preparing for my complicated escape.

The complicated escape in question went something like this: I lowered the seat on the toilet, turned the water in the sink on (full blast) to disguise my pained grunts, wrapped a couple sheets of toilet paper around my hand, and hoisted myself up to the narrow window above the toilet. I had to use both the closed lid and the edge of the sink to reach it, but once I was up that high, opening the glass plane was a cinch. It pushed outward until it formed a ninety degree angle with the train….leaving a gap just large enough for me wiggle through if I went out head first. Climbing out the window of a moving train was not exactly how I pictured my day going, but hey, I was starting a life of adventure, right?

I grabbed onto the ledge of the window and pulled myself forward until my chest and head were hanging outside, facing down. That was slightly terrifying because it forced me to look down at the massive wheels spinning below me, but I tried not to let the thought of falling face first out the window get to me and began pulling the rest of my body through the gap. My hips got stuck more than I’d like to admit and I had to turn myself around so that I faced towards the sky to do it, but I eventually got myself out. Once that was taken care of, I removed the toilet paper from my hand and tied it in a knot around the handle of the window. I figured that it’d be helpful to know which room I had come from when I came back….you know, assuming I came back the same way.

Compared to getting out of the bathroom, getting onto the roof of the train was a breeze. I simply grabbed onto the edge once my upper body was free from the gap and hoisted until I could rest my feet on the ledge of window, propelling myself onto the flat surface with the added leverage. My body demanded a rest once I got up there, though, and I found myself lying on my back staring up at the tree branches and clouds whizzing by overhead as I tried to force air back into my lungs.

Next came phase three of Marco Bodt’s mission to find food. This was, in all reality, probably the easiest part of my scheme, but it definitely didn’t feel that way. I rolled onto my stomach, and that wasn’t too bad. I got to my hands and knees, and that was little worse. I started crawling along the roof of the train, and that was the scariest thing I’ve ever done to date.

I tried to look straight ahead as I shuffled along the roof, but gut instinct told me to forget it the second the train took a sharp turn around a hillside, leaving me scrambling for a more secure grip on the metal beneath my palms. I looked down after that.

Minutes passed. Who knows how many. All I know for sure is that I made it across the roof of the dining cabin and to the end of the compartment containing the kitchen before I stopped my mad scramble along the top of a speeding train. Once there, I dropped back down to my stomach and peered over the side until I could see the cooks shuffling around in the kitchen through a small window on the side of the train. It wasn’t big enough to fit my entire body through, but luckily, I didn’t need to.

I swung my legs over the side of the train until I was hanging by my fingertips, and let go. That sounds insane, but trust me, it worked out. Right below me was a small landing connecting the kitchen with another cabin of the train, the space just large enough for one person to stand comfortably. I crouched down once my feet hit the metal surface with a soft _clang_ that I’m sure nobody heard over the rumbling of the wheels and the whistle of the engine and leaned against the door, straining to hear inside. A few cooks were running around the kitchen but it was long past noon; they’d have to be leaving soon to take a break before the dinner crowd stormed in.

So I waited. And waited. And waited some more until I was fairly certain that all the cooks had left for the other cabins, standing cautiously once I heard the last of them leave. There was a small, oblong window on the door and I glanced through it to confirm the absence of people before pumping the handle and opening the door to the kitchen. Inside was eerily quiet, especially without all the workers running around, but that didn’t stop me from stepping inside. Or from raiding a cabinet near the back door for food. Or from stealing a bottle or two of beer.

“Who the fuck are you?” Someone said behind me. I spun around and dropped the bottle I had been admiring in surprise. It shattered on the floor in front of me and soaked the pristine white tile in brackish liquid, I winced at the loss.

“Erm,” I said eloquently to the man standing at the door of the kitchen. He was large, maybe three or four inches taller than me, and had arms thicker than my torso. There was no getting past his hulking frame, so I decided to do what any sane person would in my scenario would.

I stuffed the food in my pockets, ran out the door, and jumped.

No, I didn’t jump off the train. Jesus, I wouldn’t be telling you this if I jumped off a moving train going fifty-five miles per hour through the countryside. I mean I jumped up and grabbed the ledge of the roof until I had a decent enough grip to pull myself up once again. I could hear the sounds of the man shouting in confusion below me, but I figured I had a better chance of surviving a fall off a moving train than I did surviving a fist fight with that guy, so I chanced it. The window I had left open for myself still had the piece of toilet paper tied to it and I let it guide me like a moth to a flame as I shimmied my way across the train. Although I didn’t think the man from the kitchen would follow me onto the roof, (who would?) I still paused at the open window to check. I pulled myself through when I couldn’t see anyone threatening to repeat my mad dash across the roof, sighing in relief once my head and shoulders slipped through and my feet met the lid of the toilet. _That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done_ , I thought to myself, despite the fact that I was smiling like a damn fool.

Said damn fool then set about commencing phase four of his ridiculous plan: pretending like phases one through three had never happened. I turned the water in the sink off, tried to make myself look presentable in the mirror, and unlocked the door. A quick glance into the hallway proved my suspicions that no one would check the bathroom for the escaped food bandit, and I stepped out into the cabin of the train as if I hadn’t just committed a crime. I kept my gaze fixed to the ground as I made my way back towards the seats, just in case, but nobody stopped me or questioned the ridiculous bulges in my pockets.

I sat back down once I was sure no one had connected me to the crime and sighed when I could finally reach into my pocket and pull out the stolen food. My haul included one banana, one ham and cheese sandwich, and two saran wrapped muffins. Overall it wasn’t great (and it certainly would have been better if I’d been able to make off with the beer) but it was something, and I wolfed it down without hesitation. Probably faster than I should have, if I’m being honest.

Minutes later, when the contents of my pockets had been successfully emptied into my stomach, I stood up to look for a trashcan. I thought I had spotted one near the back of the cabin, so I began making my way over, looking at my feet the entire way. I only looked up once I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. Curious, but slightly terrified, I turned around. I wish I hadn’t.

Sitting a few rows behind me sat an uncomfortably familiar trio; two blondes, one brunette. My blood turned to ice at the sight of them, but I couldn’t show fear. I couldn’t let them know that I was afraid. I couldn’t let them know that I had noticed their presence on the train. I turned back to the trashcan, hands shaking and fisting in the hem of my shirt as I tried to come up with a new escape plan. The trio sat facing me, so that limited my options significantly. I couldn’t walk back to my seat without walking past them, and I couldn’t head back towards the dining room without getting busted by the guard and the human tank from the kitchen. _My name is Marco Bodt. My name is Marco Bodt. M-A-R-C-O B-O-D-T._ I repeated the mantra in my head as panic took over the rest of my body. It seemed to get louder the more I panicked. _My name is Marco Bodt. MY NAME IS MARCO BODT. MYNAMEISMARCOBODTMYNAMEISMARCOBODT._

The three passengers must have noticed my anxiety, because they simultaneously stood from their row of seats and made their way towards me in that eerily synchronized way they always had. The familiarity of it - of seeing Annie and Bert and Reiner doing things together like they were one unit instead of three - made my heart speed up even more….if that was even possible.

The trio was getting closer. And closer. And _oh God they’re almost on top of me now what do I do?_ My feet decided to speak for the rest of my body, propelling me as far away from the three intimidating figures as they could. Annie, Bert, and Reiner’s synchronized footsteps faded behind me as I sprinted through the cabins, but I didn’t dare slow down. Not when I crashed into the guard again; not when I barrelled through the barricade of cooks in the kitchen. Not even when I reached the landing from my earlier heist.

“Marco, _stop_ ,” someone shouted behind me. It might have been Bertholdt, but my mind was too frantic to put a name to the authoritative voice. Frantic, and utterly incapable of stopping. Stopping meant giving in and going back to the life I had just escaped from. Stopping meant a lifetime of uncertainties and suffering under someone else’s heel. I had just gotten my first taste of freedom; I couldn’t give it up now. Especially not when I had already gotten addicted to the feeling of it.

“Make me!” I shouted back to them, gripping the edge of the landing and lifting my leg over the side.

_"MARCO, DON’T_ ,” that was definitely Annie’s voice - a voice that normally would have made me drop to my knees and obey - but it was too late. I had already flung myself over the edge of the train and the ground was hurtling towards me at what felt like a million miles an hour. I couldn’t obey her, even if I wanted to.

“ _MARCO!_ ” Someone shouted. It was the last thing I remember hearing aside from the clanging of the train and the whistling of the wind as I hurtled towards the ground and descended into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco's such fun to write.  
> Also the cat from last chapter is now named Clementine and idk if we'll ever see her again, but I loved that suggestion from the comments so it's official.  
> And if you get bored waiting for this to update you can always go check out my other fic which is still on a rotating schedule with this one


	5. Jean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”_  
>  -Jack Kerouac

There were many thoughts running rampant through my head as I pushed my little Ford Focus down I-70 into Denver; foremost among them being _why the fuck are there so many cars on this highway_. 

I suppose, in some deep corner of my mind, I should have known this would happen. Millennials had been flocking farther and farther West recently and as much as I was loath to admit it, I was exactly the same. We were all seeking the progressive freedom that came with Westward expansion, after all. The only difference was that most millennials probably had an end goal whereas I simply wanted to get out and away. 

I believe it was a Friday afternoon when I found myself stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic with no decent radio channels to entertain myself with. That in and of itself wasn’t exactly terrible - I’d just spent three days making my way through the Midwest, now _that_ was terrible - it was mostly the fact that the cars weren’t stopping or slowing enough for me to just put the damn thing into park and wait until we started moving again. Instead, we were moving at a solid pace of five miles per hour which, compared to the 80mph speed limit I’d been growing used to from flooring it across the U.S., was intoxicatingly slow. Possibly even to the point where I may have been coerced into a hypnotic state focusing on nothing but the feel of the wheel in my hands and the wobble of the bright red minivan in front of me. 

Fortunately, there was one upside to the snail’s pace I’d set on that crowded stretch of road: the view. 

I had never considered myself a mountain man. Heck, I still wouldn’t refer to myself that way even if you paid me. I don’t know my North from my South, I’ve never camped out properly, and until I started living out of my car like a hobo, my idea of ‘roughing it’ consisted of pitching a tent in the backyard with my father and telling spooky stories. 

But driving along that claustrophobic stretch of asphalt, mid-day heat beating down through tinted windows, I wanted to call myself a mountain man. I looked up the the massive peaks rising up in front of me like splotches of purple paint bleeding into the intense blue of an artist’s palette, and I wanted to believe I could make it there. That I could live off my own devices in the middle of nowhere, Colorado, and be content with nothing but pine trees and my own imagination to keep me company. 

My heart soared at the thought and the traffic blocking me in suddenly felt more oppressive than merely irritating. I wasn’t sure if you could really assign a definition to this idea of _West_ I had in my head, but I’ll be damned if the Rocky Mountains didn’t pop up somewhere in that convoluted explanation. And instead of speeding towards those rocky peaks sitting perfectly framed by the edges of my windshield, I was trapped in a sea of soccer moms and businessmen making their way into Denver. To put it mildly, it was maddening. To put it more accurately, it was enough to fill my eyes with angry tears and push me over the edge of sanity until I was repeatedly bashing my head into the steering column, a long continuous _hoooonk_ announcing my displeasure to the surrounding commuters none too politely. 

I suppose by that point in my journey I shouldn’t have been surprised when I suddenly came to clarity a couple hours later with a beer in my hand. That was pretty much how every single one of the past three days had gone anyway. I got up from whatever shitty motel I’d crashed in the night before, I drove until my eyes started glazing over, I inexplicably found myself sitting at a local bar, downing some repulsive liquor and trying to remember how I’d come to get there. So all in all, it wasn’t particularly unusual. What was unusual was the building I seemed to have stumbled into in my semi-drunken wandering. Tall with red brick on the outside, hazy with cigarette smoke and guitar chords on the inside. It wasn’t modern, and it certainly wasn’t very nice, so what force had pulled my feet in this direction? I glanced around the crowded bar hopelessly. Waitresses twirled past my awkwardly mopey form and swung through kitchen doors carrying hilariously large trays of beer and wine. Patrons crowded around me laughing and pointing at huge, framed posters on the walls. One man in particular caught my attention, I remember, because he looked a bit like Connie and talked with the same drunken gusto as my bald acquaintance. 

“Those were the days,” he was announcing loudly to anyone who would listen, “freedom, jazz, women. He got it.” The man gestured to a framed photograph on the wall with his glass of beer, amber booze dripping in rivulets over the side and covering the counter in front of him. I looked up at the frame in question, trying to pretend as though I hadn’t been eavesdropping on his drunken rambling, and came eye-to-eye with a face I’d seen hundreds of times on the back covers of my mother’s books. 

“Jack Kerouac?” I mumbled aloud, almost as if the photograph would respond. I inched closer to the poster and scanned the delicate golden plaque just to the right of it, patrons bumping into me as I read. 

_Jack Kerouac, famous American author and poet, spent many nights in this bar during his travels which would later inspire his most renowned work_ , On The Road. 

That was pretty cool, I guess. I probably would have found it more interesting if I had a little less alcohol buzzing through my veins, but it still inspired me enough to examine the posters on either side of good ol’ Jack Kerouac. To the left sat Neal Cassady, to the right Allen Ginsberg; neither of which I particularly cared about or recognized. 

I left the bar sometime after that, though I haven’t the slightest idea why. Maybe they kicked me out, maybe I started feeling claustrophobic in the cramped basement. Most likely, I took a walk to gather my thoughts. 

It was a clear night, stars twinkling overhead and streetlights reflecting off asphalt. Denver was a touch chillier than Philadelphia, but I couldn’t bring myself to care when the fresh air blowing over my exposed arms felt so relaxing. Besides, the crisp mountain air was keeping me from falling asleep as I walked along sparsely populated sidewalks. It was so...different. I thought back to my hometown, how if I had taken a walk this late at night on a Friday the streets would be far more packed. People would flood the sidewalks outside of bars, cars would do their best to avoid the flocks of drunkards, and I’d clutch to my friends’ coattails so we wouldn’t get separated in the crowd. 

But Denver wasn’t like that. I saw maybe five people on a single block, and I had to worry more about bikers than I had to worry about cars. It was...dissatisfying, though I had a difficult time figuring out why with how muddled my brain had become. Eventually - once I was pulling up to the hotel I’d crashed in - I decided I was so dissatisfied by the quiet because it wasn’t what I was expecting. I’d read _On the Road_ , and Kerouac made it seem like the West would be this constant source of energy and distraction to sate the growing wanderlust in my veins that had only gotten worse and worse as I’d traveled farther and farther from Philadelphia. 

I went to bed that night deeply upset with my current standings, but too tired to complain any more than I already had. I took off my shoes and jeans, crawled under the scratchy covers of the hotel bed, and prepared for a night void of dreams. 

. 

.. 

… 

I greeted the next morning with an unenthusiastic groan and an insufferably terrible pain in my head. Somehow, I managed to choke down an aspirin or two with my cheap hotel coffee, but I figured that wouldn’t be kicking in any time soon so I climbed back under the obnoxious floral duvet and stared at the cracks of the ceiling - my conscience yelling at me to get up and plan for the day ahead all the while. 

I did do that, by the way. Plan for the day ahead. I felt too anxious and eager to explore to simply lie in bed counting the cracks in the ceiling. Figuring my headache would go away with a simple distraction, I rolled out of bed and got ready for my upcoming adventure. I pulled on my jeans, shoes, and a new shirt, brushed my teeth and hair, and packed up my meager pile of belongings. By the time I had everything shoved back into my pathetic little rucksack, my headache was practically gone and I was itching to get back out on the streets. Fortunately, I remembered that eating was a necessary part of life before I burst through the automatic doors of the hotel, and doubled back to scarf down a cheap breakfast consisting mostly of dollar store muffins and equally terrible coffee. I took a seat in a large chair near the reception desk to enjoy my spoils and it was then that I finally checked my phone. 

In all my days away from home, I’d estimate that I actually looked at my phone a grand total of two times; once to get directions out of Louisville a few days prior to arriving in Denver, and once to play Angry Birds while I waited for my Starbucks order. So you can imagine my surprise when I unlocked my phone to seven voicemail messages and about fifty texts from both my mother and father. 

I shouldn’t have felt surprised. I had up and left without much notice, after all, but I suppose I was just shocked they even cared enough to call at all. My parents weren’t bad people - quite the contrary - but in all honesty, I didn’t expect them to care about my departure. I expected them to be thrilled with this development; thrilled to have an extra room in the house and thrilled to get rid of their freeloading son. My mother would probably cry at first, my father standing sullenly by her side as they looked over my hastily drafted note. Father would wrap his arm around her trembling shoulders and she’d grip his hand in hers tight enough to bruise. Then she’d remember the book club meeting she had in a few hours and the spell would be broken, both of them returning to their usual routines as though I had never existed or abandoned them. 

It stung a little, seeing those messages. Not because they were begging for me to return, but because it had taken them four days for them to call. What kind of parent waits half a week before reaching out to their son who practically just ran away? I didn’t read the texts or listen to any of the voicemails. It wasn’t worth my time and I didn’t fancy starting the day off on such a low note; especially not when the sky was so blue and the city around me was becoming more and more lively with every passing minute. 

I left the hotel shortly after, rushing through the automatic doors which seemed to open too slowly for my energetic needs and stepping out into a bright, summer day. Driving in, I had noticed a little park not far from the hotel and then seemed the perfect time to explore it. I headed off in the direction I thought it was in, the streets getting narrower and older the longer I walked. At some point I realized I was headed in entirely the wrong direction. I kept walking. Soon enough, the narrow, pothole ridden streets fell away to reveal a massive steel bridge stretching over a river I didn’t know the name of. I stepped up to the ledge and leaned over as far as I dared, shocked to see that the river, which had looked so shallow and tumultuous when I first spotted it, was filled with people. Children swam around in swirling eddies, mothers and fathers waded in the shallower water, but best of all were the rambunctious teens and young adults floating lazily through rapids in giant inner tubes. 

My heart rate picked up at the image before me and before I could really contemplate my actions, I was launching myself down the bridge, onto the footpath running at its side, and into the water below. Icy waves lapped at my feet, but I was too happy and content watching the people floating past to mind the chill. _The shoes will dry out later. Who cares if your jeans are soaked_ , I told myself as I watched a particularly daring teenager ride a surfboard through the rapids. _He certainly won’t care_. 

I stood at the riverside for hours. At least, I assume it was hours. My stomach was groaning in agony by the time I decided to leave and the sun was definitely higher in the sky, but I had hardly noticed the passing of time as I stood ankle deep in the icy water. Grudgingly, I tore myself away from the river bank and wandered back towards the hotel. I grabbed a hot dog from a vendor on the street along the way - never in my life had the ambiguous meat-stuff tasted so good and I scarfed it down faster than I probably should have. Before I knew it, my hands were wrapped around the wheel of my car instead of around a hot dog bun and I was pulling out of the hotel parking lot. I wasn’t sure exactly where I wanted to go from there, but West seemed to be the direction of the week so I went with the gut feeling I had been following all this time and drove out onto the highway. Little did I know, driving in that direction would turn my whole road trip upside-down. 

. 

.. 

… 

Hours later - when the whole ‘trip turning upside-down’ thing occurred - I found myself driving lazily through the streets of Boulder. I didn’t particularly feel like stepping out of the car, so I just drove and drove and drove around the city until I found a particularly nice overlook where I could admire the jagged cliffs and mountains rising up all around me without leaving my seat. 

I was watching a hawk circling overhead, feathers glistening in the mid-afternoon sunlight, when I noticed him. 

The him in question was a short man, about the same age myself, with caramel skin and piercing green eyes that stood out even across the road. I leaned back in my seat to get a better look at him, craning my neck to watch. 

He didn’t seem to be doing anything in particular, just standing on the side of the road, really, but anytime a car came past he’d stick out a thumb in a gesture I’d never actually seen but read about many a time. My feet seemed to act for me and I found myself unbuckling the seatbelt with clumsy fingers and walking out towards where he stood a few meters away. 

“‘Scuse me,” I said and my voice shook embarrassingly; it had been too long since I’d actually spoken with someone. “Do you...uh, do you need a ride?” 

The man turned to face me and I sucked in a breath. His eyes were even greener up close. I found myself wondering if he was wearing contacts, but that was a ridiculous thought - who would be wearing colored contacts while they were hitchhiking? 

“Yeah! Yeah, definitely!” he responded, a look of relief washing over his face. He must have been standing out there for a long time, then. I gestured over my shoulder at my beat up little car, still unable to talk given how long my vocal chords had gone without being used properly. 

“So, um. Where ya headed?” the man asked eventually once I’d finished loading his duffle and guitar case into the trunk of my Ford. 

“West,” I looked up to gage his response, worried that he’d find my lack of destination concerning but instead finding that there was a huge smile plastered onto his face. His teeth were maddeningly bright against his dark skin. 

“Great! Me too,” he said before sticking out one callused hand in my direction, “I’m Eren, by the way.” 

“Jean,” I told him, reaching out to shake his hand. His skin felt rough and dry against my own, but I found that I rather enjoyed the feeling. I gestured once again to my car and together we climbed into the front seat and headed back out onto the open road. 

It felt weird having another person in the car with me on this adventure. I kept looking out my right mirror expecting a clear view and instead coming eye to eye with the stranger in my passenger seat. The very _attractive_ stranger. 

“So...where are you comin’ from?” I asked him, my voice shaking more than I care to admit. Eren shook his head a little at the question. 

“Rapid City.” 

“Ah.” 

The atmosphere inside the car changed immediately after that. Eren clearly wasn’t willing to talk about where he came from or why he’d left in the first place, so I let him off the hook. Besides, the glare he was throwing my way clearly screamed _don’t mention it_ and I had a hard time not giving into those gorgeous green eyes. 

We drove around in silence for a good half an hour, neither of us speaking and both of us sparing oblong glances to the person at our side. Eren turned on the radio after a while, which I found rather forward, but I didn’t stop him. If it meant the bastard wouldn’t stab me in the back with his menacing glare while we drove, then so be it. 

“I’m uh, ohgodIcan’tbelieveI’msayingthistoyourstupidhorseface, I’m kinda glad you picked me up,” Eren chuckled after an uncomfortable half an hour of silently gawking at each other. I nearly drove the card off the road because it shocked me so much, but I tried to shake it off. A couple phrases in his exclamation did stand out to me, though. 

“Horse face?” I whispered back, my grip on the steering tightening dangerously. _Screw his gorgeous eyes and his rippling biceps. Eren’s dead to me as of now_. 

“Yeah, well,” Eren huffed and I scanned the immediate area for the best place to hide a human body, “didn’t say I didn’t like it.” 

“...Right…,” I mumbled. _Eren’s safe. For now_. “So...you’re glad it was me?” Eren then received a very cocky eyebrow wiggle for his troubles and I could have sworn he blushed at the attention but it might have just been the altitude playing tricks on me. 

“Shut up,” he growled, I smirked. 

“Ha, make me.” 

“When we get out of this goddamn car, maybe I will,” Eren said, voice dropping dangerously low and dripping with want. I remember looking down at my own lap and willing myself not to pop a boner at his tone, but I also distinctly remember my pants getting tighter and tighter around my legs, as much as I wish that was not the case. 

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer,” I said back, my voice amazingly calm given how disheveled Eren was making me. It was actually pretty impressive, I must say. I mean, this gorgeous and feisty stranger who may or may not have been my type basically just asked me to screw him and my voice didn’t even shake once when responding. _Told you going West would make you happier_ , I reminded myself, very close to patting myself on the back. 

“I’m sure you would,” he purred back, interrupting my little celebration in the driver’s seat. I smiled cockily back at him. 

“Mmm. So, why me?” Eren fidgeted in his seat a little at the question and my mouth went dry just watching the way his hips rocked on the polyester seat. He sighed. 

“Well I mean - don’t laugh, okay? - I mean I saw the ‘Bi Pride’ bumper sticker on your car and I think you’re maybe the first person I’ve hitched a ride from who won’t actually hate me just because I’m...me,” he said, sitting on his hands and looking for all the world like a little kid who just told his mother that he was the one who broke the mirror he lied about shattering earlier. 

I spared a sideways glance at the man on my right and forced smile to turn from a flirtatious smirk into a more comforting smile, hoping that would calm him down and urge him to continue. 

“I, uh, well,” he stuttered, cleared his throat, “when I left Rapid City...I got picked up by this old couple, like, _really old_ , and I’m a fucking idiot, right? So I just kinda...told them I had just broken up with my boyfriend? And okay, yeah. It was kinda funny because we were going sixty miles an hour down the fucking interstate and they both looked so fucking shell shocked but y’know it was kinda terrible too because I kept thinking about how they were gonna, like, _wipe the gay away_ once I got out of the car.” 

The car was eerily silent for the next few moments. Until I cut into it like a wrecking ball and shattered any illusion of a normal conversation permanently. 

“S-so you’re gay?” I said. Eren turned to me, disbelief clear on his face. 

“Is that really all you got out of that?” he mumbled, and I thought back to a few nights ago in Louisville when I’d let Sasha give me a ride and immediately regretted it because she might have been the next Bonnie Parker and Connie the next Clyde Barrow. And if they were Bonnie and Clyde, then Eren was one of those serial killers on _Criminal Minds_ or _CSI: Miami_ who preyed on drivers, killed them, and stole their car. 

This was, of course, ridiculous. Eren struck me as the kind of guy who was purely bark, no bite whatsoever. I wondered what had happened in his life to make him that way before realizing that I was still gawking at the road ahead trying to piece my thoughts into a coherent response. 

“N-no, no Jesus no, I-I just...I’m sorry. It’s been a long day,” I told him, one hand wrenching off the wheel to scratch nervously at my cheek. 

“It’s okay,” Eren sighed, “I-I just thought you should know.” He slumped down in his seat and stared longingly out the window. I tried not to join him. You know, for our mutual safety. 

And then I did something really uncharacteristic. And I cannot for the life of me tell you why. No, it wasn’t a big secret or anything. I just don’t know why or how it happened. 

Silently, I lowered the hand scratching awkwardly at my cheek and reached it over the cupholder separating me from Eren and took his hand in mine. It was risky, seeing as we barely knew each other and also because I really should have been keeping my eyes on the winding mountain road, but my heart was definitely more in control than my brain was at the time so it happened nonetheless. 

“Where are you going, Eren?” I asked, voice almost a whisper. Eren looked at me, wide-eyed and scrambling for an answer. 

“San Francisco,” he whispered back before squeezing my hand lightly. I squeezed back. 

I took my hand away afterwards and placed it back on the steering wheel. Ideally, I would have kept my hand in his for the rest of the ride, but those mountain roads were too steep and winding to navigate with one hand on the wheel. I smiled at Eren, calm and comforting, to let him know I didn’t willingly rip my hand away. He nodded as if he understood. 

“I’ll take you there,” I said. 

It’s at about this point that I should mention how drastically I had changed in the past four days. If, on Monday morning, you had asked me to strike out across the country with an attractive stranger in the passenger seat and take him wherever he needed to go, I would have laughed and shut the door in your face. But my life on the road had changed that, and suddenly this didn’t seem like such a preposterous idea. San Francisco _was_ West, after all...and I’d always wanted to see it so really, Eren was just an excuse. 

At least, that’s what I told myself when my heart started fluttering at his rushed and extremely grateful assault of ‘ _thank you_ ’s. And what I told myself when I couldn’t wipe the giddy smile off my face for the rest of the drive. 

_...Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I'm so sorry it took so long to update this, I was super busy with Jeanmarco Week and with [ The Stars Are Silent](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7459629/chapters/16951836) but it's here now! AND everyone is finally meeting everyone (it only took 11,000 words good lord).


End file.
